Easy Prey by John Sandford

death.”
    â€œI have heard that, but my source probably wasn’t any better than yours,” Lucas said mildly.
    â€œWeren’t you at the death scene early this morning?”
    â€œYes, I was.” Reluctantly.
    â€œAnd now you’re here investigating the exact same drugs that were found.”
    â€œLook,” Lucas said, interrupting, “I don’t want to talk about the Maison investigation. Chief Roux is taking direct charge of that investigation, and all comment has to come through her.”
    â€œBut we understand that you are coordinating--”
    â€œI really can’t comment, sorry. Excuse me.” Lucas pushed through the group, walking down toward the cars. The interview-on-the-scene was over, and the cameras went down, but the reporters tagged along behind.
    â€œThere’s gotta be more than that, Lucas,” one of the reporters said. She was an intense young woman with short dark hair and small, pretty features.
    â€œI wish I could tell you more, but I can’t,” Lucas said. “I just can’t. But I’ll tell you what—if you hang around here, I’ll talk to Jim Jones, Lieutenant Jones from Narcotics, and I’ll get you inside the house. Marijuana might not be that big a deal, but it is when you’ve got a mountain of it, and there’s a mountain of it in there. And I’ll get them to show you the cocaine and heroin.”
    â€œAlie’e was using heroin, at least in New York she was,” another reporter asserted. This one was a honey blonde, with a nose so tidy that it could only be explained as the product of surgery.
    â€œListen,” Lucas said, dropping his voice. “This has honest-to-God gotta be off the record, okay? I’m serious.”
    The three reporters glanced at each other and nodded. “Alie’e had what’s called a short pop of heroin about the time she was murdered. I don’t know what they’re planning to say downtown, but that’s the truth. If you push them on it, they’ll confirm it.” He looked back at Shaw’s house—significantly, he hoped. “That’s all I can tell you.”
    â€œWait a minute, wait a minute,” the blonde said. “You said, ‘short pop,’ is that the phrase?”
    â€œYeah, short pop.”
    â€œThat’s good. That sounds really, you know, ghetto,” she said. “And one more question, this can’t hurt anyone. When you saw Alie’e this morning . . . was she wearing a green dress?”
    â€œA green dress?”
    â€œYes, a green dress with a narrow, dropped neck and--”
    â€œThis has gotta be off the record.” He couldn’t see how it could hurt.
    â€œSure. Of course. We just want to know ,” she said.
    â€œIt was green. Kind of semitranslucent.”
    â€œExcellent.” The cameramen had been drifting over to listen in, their cameras pointed away—this was off the record, and they knew the rules. The blonde picked out her cameraman and lifted a hand, palm up, and said, “The dress was green.”
    They high-fived, and Lucas asked, “What?” The other reporters looked as puzzled as he was.
    â€œDeath dress,” the reporter said. “We got it on tape yesterday. It’s by Gurleon. A twenty-five-thousand-fucking-dollar shroud, and we got it on tape, with Alie’e in it. Are we fuckin’ good , or what?”

7
    â€œ. . . AND BECAME A beautiful filmy-green twenty-five-thousand-dollar shroud for the mysterious women with the jade-green eyes. Back to you, Henry.”
    The first man hadn’t gotten any sleep; he paced his office, watching the TV. The blond reporter was smiling at him. Filmy-green shroud. She was proud of that. Filmy-green.
    At the tips of his fingers, the man could still feel the soft skin of Alie’e’s throat. He hadn’t had any choice with her. She’d come along at the precisely wrong time in